King of Brooklyn
by FansieFace
Summary: He was Spot Conlon. He was tough. He would make his way in the world. Never again would anybody mess with him. No sir. He was his own master, his own bodyguard, his own. Nobody could or would mess with him. He was Spot Conlon.
1. Chapter 1

**Darn those plot bunnies that strike at awkward moments. Story: My friend Big Glasses Girl FanFic told me I should write a Spot Conlon story after I published Except. I LOVE Spot, so I wanted to, but I didn't have a story. Then, I was sitting in the seven-o-clock church service and his entire story, back-story, family, future, getting control of Brooklyn, it all just kind of fell into my head, and I flapped, which just sort of happens when I get excited. Sometimes real bad. My friend Kylie says that if Corey Cott walked in a door, I would flap so hard I'd fly. *sigh* Corey Cott. Anyway, I flapped, and the pastor was talking about the youth and how we need to pray for them, and he was looking right at me because I'm being confirmed in two weeks, and he gave me quite the look. I think this story shows promise, but honest reviews, please.**

The belt lashed on his back over and over again, leaving wide red welts he could feel beginning to form. Tears were streaming down his face, his nose was running, but he would not allow a single sound to escape his mouth. He would not give his father the pleasure of knowing how much the belt hurt, would not let him know his rampage had left an impact.

"Lucas...Lucas you was bad. You was a bad boy, Lucas. Is you gonna be bad any more, Lucas?" His father growled out, panting slightly from the effort of striking hard enough to raise welts but not to break the skin. Lucas held still, controlling his urge to writhe, scream, to beg for mercy. Lucas had to be strong. If he wasn't, his father would go after Aodh or Abela. And Lucas could not allow that to happen. He just held still under the onslaught of blows, his mouth clamped tightly shut. This lashing had been going on for a quarter of an hour, surely his father would tire or get bored soon. Lucas felt time phase out around him, nothing mattered, the only things that existed were the belt and his back, he needed to stay strong, to stay silent, to protect his younger siblings. "You know Lucas, you was gonna be called Laoidhigh. Mebee if you was called a proper Irish name like that, you wouldn't be a bad seven year old. Mebbe you was gonna be good if I didn't let that woman, your mother, ta call you Lucas. I hate that name." Lucas realized that his father had started rambling. Rambling meant he was tiring. Sure enough, the lashes started to slow, their strength diminishing. "You has been beat good enough...for now. Go sit in your room now, until I call you, Lucas." Lucas rushed to the small room he shared with his twin siblings.

"Lucas, Luc, is you okay?" Four small, concerned sea-green eyes peered up at him from beneath a blanket on one of the two cots in the room. Lucas managed a small, hopefully comforting, smile in the direction of the twins.

"I'se is fine." He replied, wiping his eyes and nose on his forearm. "Da jist hit me a few times is all." Abela poked her head of fiery red hair out of the blanket.

"But that was a long time, Luc." She looked worried. Lucas looked down at the four-year-olds who had been forced to grow up so quickly. He sighed as he sat down on his cot, wincing at the pain as his back stretched out. The door of the apartment banged open.

"Geussssh who's home, sweetyssssh!" A voice slurred. The twins ducked back under their blanket. They had learned quickly as their home fell apart that that voice meant trouble, that staying out of the way was what was best for them. Lucas nervously pushed himself back against the wall. He couldn't get away with hiding under a blanket, but sometimes curling into a ball made his drunk mother ignore him. With a rampaging father and a drunk mother, a night in the Conlon household could turn real nasty, real fast. The argument began in the kitchen.

"YOU FILTHY DRUNKARD! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, GOING OUT AND GETTING DRUNK!"

"I jisht hada few ta drink, Patty."

"MY NAME AIN'T PATTY!" Lucas closed his eyes at the sound of a slap, then a thud as his mother, weakened by alcohol, collapsed onto the ground. Several more thuds, a few whimpers, then a bellow.

"YOU LITTLE ADULTERESS! YOU HAS BEEN WITH SOMEBODY, AIN'T YA?" Inaudible murmurs. More sounds of violence. Lucas squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the release of sleep. It didn't come until much later, when the sounds from the kitchen had quieted. Dreams of tomorrow plagued his dreams, dreams of more abuse, from his father, his mother, the boys at school. Dream that made sleep less of a release than a burden. Dreams that he was sure were killing him slowly. Nightmares.

 **Lucas Edison Conlon, everyone. I know the main idea of the story, just the details will be filled in as I write, but it could be lighter later. Maybe.**


	2. Chapter 2

"Loopy-Lucas! Loopy-Lucas!" Lucas kept his head down as the older boys taunted him, making fun of his family's reputation. It wasn't his fault his father was practically insane, wasn't his fault his mother was drunk most of the time. But the boys could blame him for it, they could taunt him, hit him, tell tales one him, insult his shabby clothes, his poor lunches. Lucas was nearing the breaking point, he was about to snap. Anger was burning inside him, ready to pop like a blister.

"Why do you do this to me?" He wanted to scream. "It ain't my fault! They beat me too! They beat my four-year-old siblings! You think I _want_ to live like this? You think I chose this? Look at my back! See the marks? Look at my chest? See the burns from my drunk mother using me as an ashtray? _I DIDN'T CHOSE MY LIFE!"_ But he knew that wouldn't do anything but increase the taunts. The boys were following him home, throwing the occasional punch, catching him in between the shoulder blades, in the back of the head. _Clang-clang-clang_! A paddy-wagon rushed down the street, it's bell ringing constantly. Another fire in the tenements, probably. But the smoke was close, too close to be any tenement but...Lucas took of running.

"Hey Loopy-Lucas! Are you a baby? Running away from us? Huh, Loopy-Lucas? Huh?" But Lucas could not be bothered. He had to get home. One more corner...Lucas stopped in horror. His building was burning. Flames were shooting out of the top floor, his floor, the floor where Aodh, Abela and his parents were. As he watched, the top floor collapsed, sending sparks up into the air. Lucas watched in horror as the sparks went up, came down, clumps of hot ashes, embers. He was walking slowly, slowly towards the scene of his home, his family burning. Screams were coming from inside the building. Horrible, heart-wrenching screams. Paddy-wagons came roaring up, trying, failing to stop the blaze. Lucas could feel ashes coming down as the next floor broke down, the fire eating away at the building, the building already weakened from years of mis repairs breaking, falling, down, down onto the ground. Lucas fell to the ground. His family, his mother, his father, Aodh, Abela, all gone. No way they had gotten out, not with his mother drunk or hungover and his father in the state he was usually in as he waited for Lucas to come home. He felt pain as embers burned into him, spotting his face, burning his shirt. But nothing meant anything. His mother he could live without. His father he could survive losing. But Aodh and Abela were his only joy, the only thing that had kept him alive as his family fell apart. And they were gone. No more. Lucas was lifted into the air, strong arms carrying him away from the burning embers.

"Son, son are you okay? Son?" Lucas screamed at the word son. Aodh and Abela were gone, nobody had the right to call him son, he would refuse to acknowledge it. He twisted free, threw the punch that had been building up inside him for three years. He felt fist connect with nose, felt blood flowing over his hand, felt a crack as he punched again, connecting once more. He ran, darting around arms reaching for him, running into an alley. They were gone, never again would he hear their sweet laughter, never again would he comfort them, never again would they comfort him. If they were gone, so was Lucas Edison Conlon. He felt the burns on his face, spots of red. Spot. Gone was Lucas Edison Conlon. Here was Spot Conlon. He would never show his emotion again. It would only lead to pain. He would never cry in public. It would only lead to hurt. He was Spot Conlon. He was tough. He would make his way in the world. Never again would anybody mess with him. No sir. He was his own master, his own bodyguard, his own. Nobody could or would mess with him. He was Spot Conlon.

 **Is it bad that I had fun writing that?**


	3. Chapter 3

Spot glanced at the man again. He was carrying a cane, so probably a rich man from what he'd seen so far in his three months on the streets. Rich men often had change in their pockets, and Spot needed change. He slipped up beside the man and pretended to fall onto him so he could dip his pocket. But it didn't happen that way. The man grabbed Spot.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" He said, his eyes flashing. "You pick-pocketing me? You are, I can see it in your eyes." The man took Spot by the arm and pulled him. Spot dug his feet into the road and refused to move, meeting the man's eyes. He kicked, hard, but the man barely reacted, other than to look even angrier.

"You kicking me boy? You know who I am? I'm Mister Snyder, and no street brat gets away with fighting me!" Snyder pulled Spot into an alley and hit him a few time with his cane. Spot refused to fall down, standing up, blocking with his arms when the cane swung at his head. He tried to throw a punch, but he didn't have much experience in hitting people. More like tripping them and running like hell. Snyder hit him again and again, Spot blocking head shots but tolerating others. Snyder finally caught Spot in the head and he went down, his small body crumpling into a heap on the cold alley ground. Snyder began hitting him over and over, and all Spot could think was that it was his father, that he couldn't make a noise, that he had to protect the twins. The pain was familiar, it meant protect the twins, and Spot was Lucas again and he was falling through the ground, falling into darkness and he couldn't help it, he yelled. Lucas felt like a failure, his father was going to hurt the twins, but no, the twins were dead and so was his father and he was being lifted into a carriage and he couldn't remember what was happening but he knew he had to be tough, and he couldn't stop crying. Lucas was crying, but Lucas was no more, Spot took his place and the tears stopped, but he was drifting into darkness and he couldn't see, hear, feel anything but the pain in his head and on his back and he let himself go into the darkness and was gone.

 **Well that was more intense than I thought it would be. Hmmm. Maybe I shouldn't type while being nervous about testing and Confirmation. It results in...this. I've seen more intense, but it's the worst I've ever written so, yeah. Sorry it's so short, but the next one will be longer. I promise. *Spits on hand and offers it for a shake* No going back. Sorry for the slight cliffhanger. Oh, and wish Nellie Bly a happy birthday. She's sort of an inspiration for Katherine, so we Broadway Fansies owe her. Happy Birthday, Nellie!**


	4. Chapter 4

**So this took a while. I must have deleted the entire thing and rewrote at leats six times. Oh well! Here it is.**

Spot woke up slowly, blinking the world into focus. He was on a small, dirty bed in a long room with many other small, dirty beds. He groaned quietly as the pain in his head hit him like a train. He tried to sit up, but gave up as the pain intensified.

"Sitting still is what's best for you." A small voice piped up. Spot looked around, noticing for the first time that some of the other beds had boys in them. The one talking had a black eye, a clearly broken nose, and bruises on every part of him that was visible. "You'se got soaked good by da Spidah. You'se is gonna be in here for a while."

"Wha...what do ya mean?"

"Da Spidah, Snyder, he soaked ya, beat ya up, real good, so you'se is gonna be in here, da sick room, for a while."

"Did someone save me from da man with da cane?"

"No, da man with da cane is Snyder da Spidah, an' he runs dis place. Da Refuge." The boy shuddered, which caused him to wince with pain as it shifted a bandaged arm. "Da name's Scape, by da way. I'se got caught right before you'se. My fourth time almost escaping', cept he caught me again. Right 'fore he threw you'se in da back. You was awake at first, you was cryin', but den ya jist stopped and glared at me, an' den ya blacked out. I ain't-" A door swung open and Scape fell silent. A small boy slipped in, looking around furtively.

"Scape!" He hissed. "I'se got some food an' watah for da newb, like you'se asked. An' I'se got some food for you'se, too." Scape relaxed. He gestured with his head for the boy to leave the food on the beds.

"Tanks, Goat. I know ya can't do it every day, but...as often as possible?" Goat nodded energetically.

"I'se got myself kitchen duty dis week, since I knowed you was gonna try ta escape again. I kin do dis mebee every other day." Goat handed a piece of bread and a small cup of water to Scape then turned and offered the same to Spot. "So, newb, if ya ain't figured it out yet, I'se is Goat. Who is you'se?"

"I'se is Spot Conlon." Spot slowly lifted the cup to his mouth, nearly spitting out the first mouthful. The "water" was rancid, oily and nasty smelling.

"You'se got folks?" Spot could feel tears want to start, but suppressed them, choosing instead to glare at Goat. Goat responded as though the glare was a physical force, stepping backwards and holding his hands up as if to ward off a blow.

"Ah! Don't do dat! Dat's...dat's a real...scary glare! You'se look like you'se is plannin' ta soak me!" Spot allowed the glare to melt into a smirk. Intimidation was not a strategy he'd tried on the streets, but it seemed to work. Maybe he'd have to keep using it. But for now, all he wanted was to get some food in his stomach and sleep until the pain in his head went away. He forced himself to take another drink of the filthy water, and choked down his piece of hard bread. The food wasn't good, but it would at least fill his stomach. Goat watched him eat as if he was waiting to see if Spot would glare again. "How old is you?"

"Seven." Spot answered shortly.

"Really? I'se is seven two! Only...I'se been in da refuge for six months. I got caught stealin' bread. Why is you in here?"

"I pickpocketed da Spidah. Only, I'se didn't know it was da Spidah den. Den he hit me wid his cane, an' here I is." Spot closed his eyes as a fresh wave of pain rolled through his small body. Scape saw him wince.

"Goat, I'se tink Spot is tired. Mebee ask Hic fer a blanket so he's kin sleep a little?" Goat looked disappointed, but went off to find Hic.

"So, Spot. Ya need ta git ta know how tings work here. One, Minch. He's da tyrant. Either you'se join him when ya gits here, or you'se is hated by him till ya leave. Goat an' me ain't joinin' him, so if ya don't, ya kin be wid us. Den dere's duties. Goat is either on kitchen or dorm duty, which means he either cleans da dorms or worked in da kitchen ta clean up messes dere. I'se is always on dorm duty, 'cause dey tink it'll be harder fer me ta escape. You'sell probably be kitchen or dorm too, since you'se is little. But if dey like ya, if you'se listen good ta da wardens, den ya might one day be promoted ta windows or yard, an' da goils-"

"Dere's goils here?"

"Yep. Dey's got three dorm rooms ta demselves, plus if dey need isolation. Anyways, deys usually is only here fer a little while. But deys work like maids, cleanin' da Spidah's office an' mendin' clothes dat never see our backs, but deys mend 'em anyway." Goat slipped back into the room, clutching a small, dirty bundle.

"Scape! I'se got a blanket from Hic! Is Spot asleep?" Spot took the chance to close his eyes before Goat looked at him. "Oh! He falled asleep fast!"

"Jist put da blanket over him. I tink he's gonna be our friend, Goat! I tink he's not gonna be wid Minch!"

"Well I'se hope so, afta I risked my skin ta git him food an' even a blanket!" Spot felt a thin weight drape over his body. "Mebee he's kin help us git rid of Minch!"

"Mebee, Goat. Mebee." Spot felt himself drift into real sleep as the quiet conversation continued around him. Despite his surroundings, despite the fact he was in a place of torture, he felt safe. For the first time since he was five, his sleep had no nightmares. He slept soundly, a sleep of exhaustion and of pain, but a sleep of rest all the same.


	5. Chapter 5

**So this story has much more effort put into it than the others. That's why it takes longer to update. Although I'm still faster than some people. This chapter doesn't have too much impact, but it will have a little, so I had to write it.**

Spot was kept in the sick room for three weeks. He never saw anything closely resembling medicine, and the only food he received was brought to him by Goat. When he was moved into the dorms, it became clear the rest of the Refuge was far worse. In the sick room, yes, the beds were small, but at least only one boy was in each bed. The blankets were thin, but they at least kept some warmth. In the dorms, the beds were the same size, but most held at least three boys. There was one blanket in each bed, and the blankets were more holes that material. Rats covered the floor, spiders and mold ruled the walls and ceiling. The Refuge was the worst place Spot had ever heard of, worse that anything he could imagine. And that was just the building. The boys had a hierarchy, and it was brutal. At the top was Minch. He was ruthless, willing to do anything to get his way. Right beneath him was his second in command, Tar. He was named for his favorite torture method, which was to coat a boy in something sticky and roll them on the floor. The boy would pick up anything on the floor, whether it was rat droppings, old food, or just the general dirt that coated all the floors. As bathing was a rare occurrence, the boy would end up coated with whatever he picked up for weeks at a time. Minch was the boss, Tar was the thug, and the boys who followed them were spies. The boys who didn't follow Minch were forced into the worst jobs, like sick room clean-up, bathroom duty, and nurse duty, which didn't sound bad but was. The "nurse" boys had to clean wounds, a never ending stream of wounds. Whiplashes, cuts, scrapes, broken bones, the abuses the boys faced in the Refuge definitely left their marks. Spot had been put on kitchen duty with Goat, which was a small blessing. At least he knew he had one other ally against Minch in the kitchen full of his spies. Spot thought nothing could be worse than the treatment of the boys, until his third day working in the kitchen. He had been peeling the rotten potatoes that were meant for the soup when an older man came in the room. He just stood there, watching the boys work, until he saw a small boy, called Doozy, drop a potato.

"You! Boy! What was that? That was food! You just wasted food!" As the man was yelling, Spot recognized him. It was Snyder the Spider. He marched up to Doozy and hit him across the face. A few boys muttered at that, and Snyder instantly turned on them. "What? You boys think it's not fair? Well guess what? You live where _my_ rules go! He drops food, he pays for that food. He don't have the money, so he pays _my_ way." The mutterers looked down, they knew not to push Snyder. Doozy curled up in a ball, whimpering. Snyder heard the small noise and turned back to him. "You is gonna pay! You waste food, you pay." He aimed a kick, catching Doozy in the back. Doozy cried out, wrapping himself more tightly into a ball. Snyder pulled him up by the arm, and Doozy's face turned towards Spot for an instant. In that frozen moment of time, Spot saw more terror on the face of Doozy than he had seen anywhere else, and he knew that there was more than a beating coming. More than fists and kicks. And then the moment was gone, SNyder was out the door, dragging Dozzy behind him, Doozy was whimpering, begging, but it made no difference. As the door closed behind Snyder and Doozy, the boys turned back to work as if nothing had happened. Spot turned to Goat, who had gone back to his pile of potatoes.

"Goat! How can ya jist act like nothin' happened! Da Spidah's gonna kill dat kid!"

"He won't kill him, jist hurt him, mebbe whip him." Goat showed no emotion. "It don't matta. Jist be glad it's not you'se, an' watch what ya do when da Spidah's in here an' you'se is too."

"But Goat! He's not even one of Minch's-"

"Spot. You'se only been workin' three days. Trust me on dis. Ya gotta let it go." Spot sighed and turned back to his potatoes. Life at the Refuge had more to it than the boys and the work. It had the Spider, who could strike at any moment. He had to be ready, he had to toughen up. And he knew where to start. It was time to begin the war on Minch.


	6. Chapter 6

"Swoop! AY! Swoop!" Spot hissed from his bunk. The boy across from him sat up. The other bunk was crowded, holding five smaller boys. Spot's bunk only held himself, Goat, and one of Minch's boys, Wheel. Swoop looked over at Spot.

"What? Ya realize dat everybody else is asleep, yeah? An dat I was too?"

"Dat was da point. You for or against Minch?" Spot already knew the answer from watching Swoop, but wanted to make sure.

"Against."

"Good. I wanted ta ask fer ya help."

"An' why would I help you'se?"

"'Cause me an' my friends kin arrange ta git you an' anyone who helps ya food an' blankets."

"What would I be doin' for ya?"

"Gettin' information we'se kin use ta take down Minch."

"How?" Spot sighed. He had thought the answer would be obvious.

"By spyin', of course." Swoop looked at him. "If ya interested, meet me in Dorm Seven 'fore breakfast tomorrow, with anybody who's will help ya." Swoop nodded, and the conversation was over. Spot allowed himself a small smile before drifting back into sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Spot paced nervously inside Dorm 7, waiting for Swoop and whoever he brought with him. The door finally swung open, and about seven boys walked in, Swoop in the lead.

"Spot, I thunk about it, and I figure it's worth it. So I'se brought Wall, Click, Can, Jig, Check an' No-name."

"No-name?"

"He can't 'member his name 'cause he was real little when he went on da streets."

"Well Swoop ain't your real name, is it? Give him a nickname!"

"We call him Floorboard, sometimes." One of the small ones piped up. "One account of he's real good at scrunchin' up real small an' looking like da floor ta escape from Minch an' Tar."

"Floorboard is him name, den. His name is what ya call him." Spot gave them a look. Did they really not understand that a name was whatever you were called? "All right. So I'se got dis idea dat if we wanna git rid of Minch, we'se gotta play his weaknesses."

"What weaknesses? He ain't got none." Spot looked at the boy.

"Who is you?"

"Click."

"Well Click, he may not seem like he's got weaknesses, but he do. Everybody do."

"Oh."

"We don't know 'em, but I'se wanna knew 'em, so dat we kin start ta try an' git rid of him."

"So we'se gon' be spies?" This came from a small negro boy, who the boys had called Check.

"Uh-huh. You'se is gonna either convince Minch dat you'se is wid him an' den tell us what ya learn, or jist spy on him some other way."

"Us?"

"Me, Scape an' Goat is gonna git rid of Minch." Swoop snorted.

"Mighty confident for a seven year old, ain't ya."

"I may be seven, but I'se got brains. Goat's got resources. An' Scape kin fight."

"You'se can't?"

"I'm workin' on it. But dat ain't you'se job. You'se is da spies. Are you'se in or out?"

"In."

"In."

"In."

"In."

"In."

"In."

"In." Spot grinned.

"Den let's git to it!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Sorry this is so short, but it needed to be put in because it has a** ** _huge_** **impact later. So...yeah. And I'm almost done with the next chapter, so another, hopefully longer, update soon!**

"Spottie boy! AY! Spottie boy!" Spot turned to see Minch coming up behind him. "I heard a rumor 'bout da new tough little kid who tinks he kin beat me."Spot was moderately and pleasantly surprised that the other boys thought he was tough. He hadn't really done anything to show that, but he supposed that considering Scape had told him how he had seemed tough when thrown in the carriage that the story had been spread around.

"An'?"

"An' I can't have me boys thinkin' I'se kin be beat by a seven year old, now kin I? So I'se gonna show once an' fer all dat ya ain't so tough after all. I'se gonna make ya cry." Minch swung at Spot, hitting him in the side of the thigh. The pain was instant and caused Spot to fall over as his leg buckled. But he had felt worse and did not let tears escape. Crying was left behind with the name Lucas, and crying would allow Minch to win. Minch drew back his foot and kicked Spot in the side. Spot gasped as the air was driven out of his lungs. He curled up in a ball, but still refused to cry. Minch stopped suddenly and pulled Spot to his feet as a bull walked down the hallway towards them. "Ya okay, kid? Dat was a nasty fall." Minch sneered at Spot as the bull passed them. "Jist 'cause ya didn't cry dis time don't mean ya ain't next time, spottie-boy. Next time." Minch glared at him and walked away, leaving Spot glaring after him, feeling the bruises start to form.

"I ain't nevah lettin' ya make me cry, Minch. Evah." He shook the pain off and walked to find Scape and Goat. "An' dat is a promise."


	9. Chapter 9

As Spot adjusted to the Refuge, he fell into a schedule. He would wake up and make eye contact with Swoop. If he nodded, there was information to share and Spot and the spies would meet in Dorm 7 before breakfast. After breakfast, which was usually more mold than fruit or bread, Spot would meet with Scape and Goat and arrange for payment if a spy had gotten information, share new information, and list out what needed to be done. Then they would split off to their duties, and more often than not a beating would be witnessed. Minch was determined to make Spot cry, and Spot was determined not to cry, so Minch would often soak Spot when there were no bulls around. So Spot was usually in some sort of pain, and was never seen without bruises and black eyes. But he never cried. And that only seemed to cement the belief in the other boys that Spot was the toughest kid ever to set foot in the Refuge. Which made Minch hate him more. Which caused more beatings. So Spot was trapped in an endless cycle of pain and abuse and work. But he never gave in, never cried. That would be letting Minch win. And his goal was to beat Minch, not the other way around. His original plan was to get a street-fighter to fight Minch, but that hope was brought to pieces by several bits of information. Minch always managed to get out of fighting somebody with a reputation as a decent fighter. And there was only one actually good street-fighter in the Refuge. And Roadblock definitely had a reputation. It was rumored to have taken four bulls and the Spider himself to get Roadblock into the Refuge, and that he had escaped from iso enough times to be put back into the dorms. So there was no chance of Minch fighting Roadblock, no sir, it had to be somebody else. And since someone was going to have to learn to fight well, why not Spot? Even if he was small, he was strong,and besides, most street-fighters were small. So Spot made up his mind. He was going to convince Roadblock to teach him how to fight, and how to fight well. How to win against even such unevenly matched opponents. Failure here was not an option. So Spot began to watch. And wait. And hope.

 **Ok so, another short chapter. Hopefully I'll be able to update more regularly and have longer chapters, but who knows? I certainly have time to write, but I'm now in the Newsies Pape Selling Competition, so that will take time. While I was typing that I was sorely tempted to put "Newsies Revival Broadway Cast" just to raise fals hopes in every little Fansie heart reading this. I would, of course, be Buttons. 'Cause he's my biggest hope right now. Excluding the fact I can't dance to save my life. I just rambled. Oops.**


	10. Chapter 10

**So this is a new POV, Roadblock. Just a try, but I liked the way it turned out.**

People assumed street-fighters were stupiSod. They thought that they fought because they couldn't do anything else. The truth was, Roadblock was anything but stupid. If he hadn't run, he might've made it to university. But that wasn't the kind of life he wanted. So he did run, he ran out to the streets. And he became unstoppable. He was taught the basics of fighting by an older boy, but his own natural abilities soon allowed him to far surpass those of any normal street kid. So he became a street-fighter. He learned from the fights he was in, refined the knowledge, and was soon a legend. Roadblock was good, and he knew it, and he used it to earn his way in the world. Fighting kids was no longer a challenge by the time he was 12, not even teenagers could really fight him. So he began finding adults willing to fight. One win too many against adults ended up with him being caught in a trap challenge and being out in the Refuge. He had been in for about two and a half years, was 14, when he first saw Spot Conlon. The kid instantly stood out him. He was small, quick to dodge a blow, and seemed to be constantly watching the people around him. He didn't seem to miss anything, and had a reputation of being tough. Roadblock saw nothing to prove that, at least until the first time he actually witnessed Minch beating on the kid. Minch was hitting Spot mercilessly, in the face, the arms, the stomach, everywhere, and yet this small, 7 year old kid didn't allow a single tear to fall. His face twisted in pain, but instead of tears, the pain was shown through anger flashing from his green eyes. He glared up at Minch, blood streaming down his face from a probable broken nose, and his eyes were watering from the sting of a nose shot, but he blinked them back and kept a glare in place. Not many people, no matter how tough they were, could keep from crying at a nose blow, but somehow, this kid was. When Minch finally stopped the beating, Spot shook himself, and glanced right at Roadblock. He looked... questioning, observant. Roadblock knew that look. It was a look every single one of the people who had asked for him to teach them to fight had given him. And he had always refused. No way was he giving he precious secrets, his self developed and imposed rules and principles of street-fighting away. But watching Spot shake off the pain, continue with his chores as though nothing had happened after such a ruthless beating, he made up his mind. If Spot asked to learn to fight, Roadblock would try to teach him. If he had no natural ability, it wasn't worth it to try, but Spot was small, quick and seemed strong enough. Roadblock had no doubt he would have natural abilities. So Roadblock kept watching. Waiting and hoping for Spot to come to him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Ok, so I'm not really sure how long it's been, and I feel hypocritical. I mean, I'm the one always saying how much I hate inconsistent updates, and yet here I am, updating sporadically. So I apologize to my community for my hypocrisy. Speaking of books, as that was a reference, have any of you read the Lunar Chronicles? I just got Fairest today, and it was freaking amazing! Ok, done with books now, enjoy the beginning of Spot's legendary fighting abilities! And please, reviews are nice, even if they are constructive criticism.**

Spot finally had his opportunity to speak to Roadblock on the day he was assigned to clean out an isolation room. When the rooms were not in use, they were allowed to accumulate dust and dirt, and the only things that disturbed them were boys cleaning them and couples meeting there after curfew. The walls of the iso rooms were specially padded so no sound could escape, in case a boy or girl yelled or screamed while being kept there, making it ideal for a secret meeting place. Spot was cleaning one that had not been used for anything for so long that the dust was a half inch thick when Roadblock walked up the stairs holding a rag and a bucket of water.

"Hey kid! Hic tol' me ta give dese to ya." Spot took them, and as Roadblock was walking away again, called out.

"Hey! Wait! Kin I'se talk ta ya fer a second?"

"Depends. 'Bout what?"

"Well...I'se been watchin' ya fight sometimes, an' you'se real good! Minch has been...soakin' me, an' I'se gotta stand up ta him 'ventually. Will ya teach me ta fight like you'se kin?" Roadblock hid a smile. He was right about the kid wanting to learn. But he couldn't teach him without showing any reluctance.

"Kid, I spent two long, hard years of my life livin' on da streets, teachin' myself ta fight. Why would I teach you'se what I hadda figure out myself?" Spot looked up at the older boys face. Roadblock took note of how young the face looked, a seven year old's face, yet the eyes were clear and green and filled with more pain and knowledge and understanding and wisdom that Roadblock had ever seen in a kid so young. He may have only been living in the world for seven years, but he had been through more than most go through in a lifetime.

"Roadblock, I knows ya see Minch soak me. I knows ya know how ta fight. I knows ya know dat even if ya challenge Minch, he ain't gonna fight ya. I knows he's only gonna fight someone dat he don't think kin fight. An' who betta ta challenge him den da kid what puts up no fight at all? If I'se learns how ta fight real good, half as good as you, I kin beat him, I knows I can! An' den at lease we ain't gotta put up wid Minch along wid da bulls! But da only one in da Refuge good enough ta teach me what I needs ta know if you'se." If Roadblock hadn't been convinced before to teach Spot, he was now. The kid had a way with words, and every point he made was sound. No conning like most in the Refuge would try. He did see Minch soak Spot. He did know how to fight. Minch did get out of most challenges, and if Spot learned how to fight, Minch would most likely accept a challenge from him. This kid was smart and logical, two very rare traits in the Refuge. But Roadblock still couldn't just give in, even if he wanted to. He had a reputation to uphold.

"What's in it fer me?" Spot thought a moment before responding.

"Well, I'se got my spies already gettin' extra food an' blankets, an' I don't think Hic would like havin' ta git more of dat kinda thing. But I'se could arrange fer bettah job assignments, I think. Or if ya want information on anything, my spies can get it for ya. Dey's real good."

"Spies?" This was new information. The kid was also sneaky, and if his claims were true, resourceful.

"Yep. A system. Started wid seven, but I'se got mebee...fourteen now. At least one in each dorm, one goil, and a few extras I think. Dey's is passin' information on Minch an' his boys ta me. We'se got a plan dat is gonna start in a week."

"We? Who else is helpin'?"

"You gonna tell Minch?"

"Tell me da plan an' da names an' git one more bit of information fer me, and dat is your payment."

"You'se is gonna teach me?"

"For the price." Spot thought carefully. On one hand, if he told those things to Roadblock, Roadblock might tell Minch, which would ruin it. But if he didn't tell, he wouldn't learn how to fight. He made his decision.

"I'se kin tell ya da plan, but I ain't namin' names. I ain't no rat, even if ya ain't gonna tell no one." Roadblock grinned.

"Den ya owe me two pieces of information."

"Deal." Roadblock spit on his hand and held it put to Spot. "What?"

"On da streets, dis is how ya make a deal. Ya can't break it, or dey's got da right ta soak ya. Mostly da newsies use it, 'cause most of da rest of us don't make no deals, but we use it when we gotta. Da price of doin' business is how dey put it." Spot nodded. He repeated the spitting action and shook Roadblock's hand. "When is I teachin' ya, an' where?"

"Why don't we meet here."

"Huh?"

"Dere's usually an empty iso room, an' dey's good at keepin' noise in."

"Only with a closed door. And dey lock automatically when closed." Spot grinned.

"Leave it ta me. Dat won't be no problem. Meet me up here in a week, durin' free hour. We kin fix a better time later, but dat will work for now."

"Free hour nex-"

"Ay! You! Your supposed to be cleanin' the dorms, not muckin' around up here!" A bull stomped down the hall towards the two boys and grabbed Roadblock's arm. Roadblock nodded at Spot before he was gone. Spot grinned once more, turning back to his work with his new, slightly less dirty, rag and bucket. Part one of his final plan was implemented, the fighting lessons. And part two was ready to get up and running. And the only price he had to pay was information. This might be easier than he thought it would.


	12. Chapter 12

With his plans now almost ready, Spot only had to worry about the minor details. He went over part two with Scape and Goat after breakfast the day he was ready to begin.

"So we'se got da mice, da roaches an' rat poop ready, right Goat?"

"Hic's got it in one of his hidin' places. Da rat an' roach are dead. Da poo is all set. I checked last night."

"Good. An' Scape? You'se all set ta distract?"

"I'se got a plan. It should keep him busy fer a few minutes, probly at least ten. Dat enough?"

"Plenty!" Spot grinned. Now there was only one thing left to be taken care of. After Goat and Scape left the room, Spot watched them walk away to Dorm 3, the one being "cleaned" today. It was also where Scape slept, while Spot and Goat were in Dorm 5. Once the pair were inside, Spot checked to make sure nobody else was outside in the hallway, then quietly snuck towards the stairwell. Te dorms were on the second floor, iso on the third, the Spider's office and kitchen and mess room on the ground, and the place of special torture, where the Spider's favorite weapons were kept for especially "bad" boys, was in the basement. Spot knew the keys for the iso rooms were kept in the Spider's office. One for each room, carefully numbered one to twelve for each room. Very rarely was every single iso room in use, and Spot had chosen the one he had been cleaning, eleven, for use for him and Roadblock. Cautiously and quietly, he crept down the stairs and into the private hallway that led to the Spider's office. It was a Wednesday, which was the day the Spider spent on the streets and with the bulls, naming and catching targets. Wednesdays and Thursdays were the days where the most new boys came in. And Wednesday meant that as long as no bulls were around, Spot could sneak into the Spider's office and steal the key for Iso 11. Glancing furtively around and seeing no one, Spot lightly stepped towards the door of the office and listened intently for any signs of human presence in the room. He didn't hear anything but the tick of a clock, not even light breathing. He looked back down the hallway and still saw nobody. He took a deep breath and tried the doorknob, but it was locked. It wasn't as if he'd expected it to he unlocked, but this made the theft much harder and riskier. He scanned the floor, cleaner here than in most places, for anything that could be used as a lock pick. For once, luck was on his side. A girl's hairpin was on the ground.

"Lucky gits me no farther." Spot muttered and inserted the small piece of metal into the lock on the door. Lock picking was not his area of expertise, but he was competent enough to feel it was a simple lock, and he shifted the wire until the tumblers move and he heard a click. Spot breathed out. He tried the knob again and it turned smoothly. Spot looked behind him again. Luck was on his side, but he wasn't taking it for granted. He swung the door open as quietly as possible and slipped inside. He had managed to avoid this office for the entire six months he had spent so far in the Refuge, and he wasn't impressed with it. It was small and grungy, cleaner than the rest of the building, yet something was still distinctly dirty about it. It had one small window that was flecked with mud on the outside and spotted with age. A desk faced the door and a trunk was against the wall to the right of the door. On the wall to the left hung several key rings on hooks, and several empty hooks as well. It was to this wall that Spot turned. His eyes sought out the ring with approximately twelve keys, finding two. He pulled one off the wall and scanned the numbers. Each key was labeled with the letter "I" and a number. One of each number. He slid the "I 11" key off the ring and started to leave the room when he realized he had no real safe place to keep it. He looked around the small room again, his brain working furiously. His pocket, but there was the possibility of it falling out. His bunk was in no way safe, and there really weren't that many options. He had to keep it on himself. He looked down at the key in his hand, noticing the loop at the top, meant to secure it to a hook...or a chain! That was it! He looked around the office, now with a purpose. Opening the chest, he saw papers. Names, records, a few photographs from newspapers, forms, inspection notices with stamps saying "paid," nothing he wanted. He moved to the desk and saw something he could use. A small coin on a thin chain, not on the desk, but trapped under the leg of the chair, barely visible. He lifted the chair and pulled the chain free, unclasping it and allowing the coin to fall to the floor. It was an odd necklace, a coin, probably one of the girls' who cleaned in here. He didn't have time to ponder it, he simply slid the key onto the necklace and clasped it around his neck. He slipped out the door, making sure it closed and locked behind him, and slipped back to the dorms. The key was tucked safely beneath his shirt, dangling against his chest in a place that would make it rather difficult for somebody to steal it. The key that would allow him to begin his war in earnest. The key that was his only hope of winning.

 **Ok, so I've heard that he wears a key around his neck in the movie. This is my explanation of why. Some of this chapter sounded like a bad mystery novel to me, but I wasn't really sure what to do about it, so I edited what I could. Sorry of some of it sounds like that.**


	13. Chapter 13

Spot met Roadblock at the time they had agreed on in the iso hall. All the doors were closed, as none were being cleaned. Roadblock approached and spoke.

"Ya said we'd be able ta use iso. We can't widout da key." Spot pulled the key from his shirt.

"I also said I'd take care of dat problem. An' I did. Raided da Spidah's office last Wednesday." He smirked at the dumbfounded look on the older boy's face. "I keep my word."

"Den let's start wid my payment. What's ya plan." Spot looked him in the eye.

"My spies is trying ta find any weaknesses dey can in Minch. Me an' my...team is usin' 'em against him. Fer example, last week he woke up wid a rat in his shoe. Day was us. So far our only insider spy ain't close enough ta more den facts like dat he don't like rats and da smell of poo gits ta him, but we'se hopin' dat eventually he'll be close enough ta learn more. An' hopefully you'se kin teach me ta fight good enough ta beat him when da time comes. Till den, dere ain't much we kin do 'cept play his weaknesses. A boy in Minch's room said he looked kinda sick when he found da rat. Dats da plan, and you'se a big part of it. Ya gonna keep ya word an try ta teach me?"

"Course. Can't break my word." Spot nodded at unlocked the door to Iso 11. They stepped inside and Spot swung the door shut after checking to make sure it was possible to unlock from the inside. Roadblock looked him over.

"Alright. So you'se is small, but so is a lot of street-fighters. It takes. While ta learn, an' I ain't teachin' ya 'less ya got some natural ability. Evah punch someone?"

"I punched a bull once. He was tryin' ta take me somewheres."

"So fight or flight, ya picked fight. Good. Show me how ya punch." Spot stepped forward and swung his fist awkwardly. Roadblock stopped it before it came near his body. "Dat'a where we'll start. Make a fist like dis...yeah. Basic punches are uppercut, jab, an' hooks. Ta hook go like dis." Roadblock demonstrated how to swing sideways at an opponents head, stopping his fist before it connected. "You try." Spot imitated him. "Alright. Ya need ta go more for da jaw or nose, not so much da cheek. Cheeks hurt, but don't do much damage. Yeah! Like dat. Try wid ya other hand. Same thing, more fer da-good! I thought you'se would have some talent. Jabs are sorta what ya tried before, jist more power. Straight at da stomach or nose or wherever. Oof! Yep, like dat. Jist use more of ya shoulder an' you'sell hit harder." Spot caught on quickly to the punches and they spent a while with Roadblock calling out punches quickly and Spot throwing them. Roadblock corrected mistakes and showed him the best places to hit. He called these areas pressure points. Some of them, he claimed, could knocks a person out if hit right. Most would cause crippling pain. He showed Spot how to tell if a person was protecting their sensitive spots, and they started on blocking before the hour they had was up.

"Ya catch on quick, kid. I'll give ya dat. Next time I'll show ya how to block best. Dat takes time, 'cause dere's so much ta block."

So Spot's schedule had another addition. At least once a week, Spot and Roadblock would meet in iso and Spot would learn how to fight. After six months, he was competent. After a year, Roadblock said he was the best nine year old fighter he'd ever met. That was high praise coming from the fighting legend. The lessons also made Spot more capable at controlling his emotions. He learned how to swallow his anger and use it as a weapon, and became even more adept at stopping his tears. After a year and a half, he was almost even with Roadblock, he knew defense and offense, he had the principles and rules memorized, and he knew how to compensate for his small size. It was when he was nine and a half that he could beat Roadblock in all out sparring half the time, and the lessons became less consistent as Roadblock deemed him good enough to beat Minch. Spot was finally ready to show Minch that messing with him was not a smart thing to do.

 **This felt a little rushed to me. Sorry if you feel the same way. The next chapter should be up soon. Be prepared.**


	14. Chapter 14

It was a cold night, cold enough that Spot and Goat were huddled together for warmth. The other boy on their bunk, Wheel, was huddled at the other end, shivering. Spot and Goat were trying to sleep, but Goat was too cold and Spot's mind was whirling. He was ready to fight Minch, he wanted to fight Minch, all he needed was a good way and time to challenge him. It couldn't be during a beating, because for the most part those happened when nobody was around. He had to beat Minch publicly. A mealtime might work, unless a bull decided to drop in. No fighting was officially tolerated at the Refuge, although not much was done to stop it. A day they were both on dorm duty would work best, which was good, since they were both on dorm duty at the moment. But he needed an excuse to challenge him, a way. And that was where he was stuck.

"Spot!" Goat hissed, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"I gotta go ta da bathroom."

"Okay." Spot moved to allow Goat off the bed. Wheel moved a bit and coughed sharply as Goat slipped off to the washroom. Spot kicked at him halfheartedly when he coughed again. "Shut it, will ya? I'se tryin' ta sleep." He coughed once more and then fell silent. Spot drifted into a half sleep, thinking once more. He was startled from this state by a loud, piecing scream from the washroom. He sat up as the scream came again, fainter this time. Recognizing Goat's voice through the sound, he dropped out of his bunk and ran to the bathroom. He ran past several figures on his way, but didn't stop to identify any them in his hurry. When he reached the washroom, he stopped. He saw Goat lying on the floor, stained red from the blood covering him. His eyes were almost glazing over as his fingers plucked feebly at a knife buried to the hilt in his chest. There were several other stab wounds in his chest, and a slight cut on his throat that was bleeding a little. A pool of bright red was spreading out around him.

"Goat! Goat!" Spot was almost crying. There was nothing he could do, the wounds were too bad, too deep, too much blood had already been lost. He was watching the life drain out of one of the only real friends he'd ever had.

"S-spot. Take. Knife. Useful."

"Goat, you'se is gonna bleed more if I takes it out!"

"Already. Not. Make. It." Goat coughed, a feeble noise. Spot could feel hot tears prickling behind his eyes. "Don't. Cry. What. He. Wants. Almost. Won. Keep. Fighting." Goat's eyes clouded further, his breathing shallowed.

"Goat...what is we gonna do widout ya?"

"Gotta. Keep. Fighting. Win. For. Me."

"We is gonna win."

"Take. Knife." Spot braced himself, then reached down and grasped the knife.

"I'm sorry, Goat. He only did dis ta git ta me." He pulled the knife from Goat's chest. More blood welled out of the stab wound.

"Win. Worth. It." Goat's breathing was labored and slow. He was barely able of speak. Spot looked down at his friend and felt anger unlike anything he'd ever felt before well up inside him. Goat sighed and then stopped breathing. Spot clutched the knife tightly.

"Minch. I'se is gonna soak ya so good, you ain't gonna walk fer a month!" He had his excuse now. He wiped the blood from the blade on his shirt as he made his way back to his bunk. He pushed past the boys who had also left their beds at the scream and sat on his bunk until it was light, anger burning in him.

When the bell rang for breakfast, he stalked off. He had his plan. He had his reason. And now it was time. He wouldn't wait any longer.

"Hey Spot. Where's Goat?" Scape asked when Spot sat at the table. Before Spot could answer, Minch strolled over.

"Hey Spottie-boy. Today's me birthday, didja know? I'se is sixteen now. My friends have me a present, too. Dey's gave me a dead Goat." Scape inhaled sharply when he understood what Minch had said.

"Wow. Dey must really like ya. Dey gave ya a dead thing." Spot didn't care if he angered Minch. He was done putting up with his constant bullying.

"See, dead Goat is only a part of it. Me friends tol' me dat if somebody is sad, dey's more likely ta cry. So I'se is gonna make ya cry, Spottie-boy."

"I ain't cried yet. Why would I now?" Spot was almost shaking, his hatred was so great and his anger so strong at the boy in front of him.

"Spot, don't make him angry! He's willin' ta kill!"

"I don't care no more." Spot spat in Minch's face. "You ain't gettin' away wid it no more! I challenge ya to a fight!"

 **This came very close to being a worse cliffhanger. Be grateful for what you get, people.**


	15. Chapter 15

_"I challenge ya to a fight!"_

Several boys audibly gasped.

"Spot! Ya can't...he's gonna kill ya!" Minch laughed.

"I accept. Time ta teach ya a lesson!" Spot smirked. He let his anger and hate take control, let them fuel the part of his brain that had been so carefully built up, the part that knew how hard to hit and where and when. He stepped forward, knowing that getting closer would give him an advantage with the size difference. He swung his fist and connected with Minch's stomach. Minch laughed, but it was a slightly choked laugh.

"Dat all ya got, kid?" Spot stopped thinking then, he just let his brain stop thinking of everything but the fight. He moved fast, punching and blocking and dodging, using his size to dart around Minch and his flailing fists. He struck at any pressure points he saw unprotected, causing Minch to gasp and groan several times. He lost track of time, of what he was doing, not really noticing the blows Minch managed to land, not noticing the blood flowing from his nose or the pain in his wrist after Minch grabbed it. He fought with all he had in him, knowing nothing but that he had to beat Minch, that he would beat Minch. His brain fazed back into conscious thought when he was standing over Minch, who was holding his nose. His eyes were slightly glazed from pain.

"Do ya yield, Minchy?" Minch glared up at him. Bruises were already darkening on his jaw and around both eyes.

"I yield." Spot smirked at him. As he turned away, he heard Minch mutter something. He turned back to the beaten boy.

"What was dat?"

"I said, jist 'cause ya beat me in one fight don't make ya a somebody. You, Spottie-boy, is a nothin' an' a nobody an' ya ain't nevah gonna be anybody!" Spot looked him in the eye.

"Minch, I'm tellin' ya right now dat someday every kid on da streets of New York is gonna know my name. Dey's gonna have an answer if ya ask 'em who Spot Conlon is. An' dat is a promise." He stalked away, pretending not to notice the stares and mutters of the other boys. He hid his emotions, the whirl of anger and hate and giddiness and just the sheer force of the emotional exhaustion he was feeling. He didn't show any of what he felt at all, he just kept a blank face and walked, finding himself in iso. He let himself into Iso 11 and sat down, finally allowing his emotions through. "I did it, Goat. I beat him for ya. Now da only thing left ta do is escape dis hellhole. Take Scape wid me." He whispered to the empty white room. He winced as his wrist shifted, and saw that it was already swelling, although it didn't seem to be broken. He thought it might be sprained. He ripped a strip from his old shirt and hound it as best he could to help the pain. He felt the knife in his pocket and pulled it out. He fingered the blade, feeling its sharpness and the cool steel. The grip leather wrapped wood, worn smooth with use and stained darker where Goats blood had gotten on it. Spot was entranced with the way the dim light reflected off the blade as he rotated it, not noticing the door open or Scape enter until the other boy slid down the wall and sat beside him.

"Didn't know ya could fight dat good, Spot." Scape's voice was slightly hollow with grief for his murdered friend, and quiet.

"Couldn't till a little while ago." Spot didn't look up from the knife. All his anger came flooding back when he saw the stains again. "Dey killed him, Scape! He's gone! Dey jist stabbed him! How come dey's thought dey had da right ta decide he deserved ta die! Now all we'se kin do is escape from here! Dere ain't no bringin' Goat back! We lost annudah person, for no damn reason!" Scale put his arm around the young boy.

"We can't do nothin' ta bring him back, but we ain't never gonna forget him. An' dat's more den we kin say fer a lot of da boys in here. When dey's gone, no one cares. At least Goat ain't gonna be forgotten." The two sat in silence for a little while.

"Scape, we'se gotta git outta here. We gotta."

"I ain't never been able ta escape before."

"We is gonna do it. We'se gonna work together an' git outta here once an' for all!"

"We gotta plan it. We can't jist run an' hope ta git out."

"Den let's start plannin'!"


	16. Chapter 16

**All right. I feel like it's been a while. This time there's a reason. I've been writing and writing so that now I have several chapters done so I can post when I'm feeling brain-blocked.**

The two boys were interrupted in their planning by feet stomping up the stairs. Spot stuck his head around the door and saw the Spider coming down the hall towards them.

"You." Snyder growled. "I was told I'd find you up here! You're coming with me, boy! Starting fights in the didning hall!" He grabbed Spot's hair and pulled him to his feet. Spot screwed his eyes shut from the pain. Snyder dragged him down the hall by his arm, twisting it and causing his sprained wrist to flare with pain. Spot kept a glare on his face as he was dragged past the dorms, boys' faces turned from their chores to watch their young hero being pulled to the Spider's place of torture. Their faces were grave. Spot was dragged into the main lobby and down a flight of dark stairs into a poorly lit, damp basement room. Snyder pushed Spot into a pole and locked his hands so he couldn't move. He was facing the pole, but around the edges and with a bit of wiggling he could see a wall with several things hanging from it. Snyder pulled something down and moved to where Spot couldn't see him. With his view clear, Spot could see that hanging on the wall were things like whips and canes, instruments to hurt kids badly. Before he had fully taken in exactly what was hanging up, a burning pain sliced through his back. It was so intense that everything else dulled, any colors looked gray, all sounds were blurred. He had thought the pain of a belt was bad, but this new pain was worse. It burned, and left a trail of stinging skin behind it. Spot barely contained a yell.

"This is what happens when ya break the rules, boy. You pay." The pain came again, across his back. This time it was clear that the weapon wasn't just raising welts, it was breaking the skin. Patrick Conlon had never done that. The feeling of hot blood dripping down his back was new. Snyder hit his back a few times, before coming around to the front. Spot saw a whip in his hand. It was long and brown, with small drops of bright red blood along it's length. Spot focused on the color. The whip moved in slow circles as the Spider moved his wrist. Suddenly it was whistling forward and Spot flinched. It whipped back with a loud cracking noise. Snyder laughed.

"Don't like that, boy? How about this?" He lashed it forward again, this time letting it hit Spot's face. Spot cried out, wishing he was able to fall to the ground and protect his head. The whip bit into his skin, cutting his cheek in a line from the corner of his eye to his mouth. It burned. Blood welled, he could see it drip from the cut. He could feel it fall onto his arms. Time seemed to slow as Snyder circled, sometimes only cracking the whip, sometimes striking his back or arms. Spot's vision blurred around the edges until he could barely see, and then blackness overwhelmed him and he was drifting.


	17. Chapter 17

When Spot woke up, he was once again lying in a bed in the sick room. He had bandages wrapped messily around his back and arms, and something covering the cut on his face. He sat up slowly, groaning as the scabs stretched and cracked, allowing more blood to seep through into the bandages. He shook his head as he looked at the dirty white wrappings.

"Got me good." He struggled to stand, the bandages limiting his movement. The door swung open, admitting Scape and a boy known as Doc.

"Spot!" Scape stopped in surprise. "Ya up? What?"

"It ain't dat bad. I kin stand."

"Nope. Sit." Doc bustled forward. "Dose wraps is bad. I'se is gonna fix 'em. An' I should probly check for infection. Not dat I could do much, but I could at least clean it." He pushed Spot back down onto the bed and loosened the bandages on his arms. As they came up, Spot saw scabs crisscrossing around his arms. The cuts didn't seem too deep, and appeared to be healing already. Scape whistled. "I don't think these ones will scar, but da back..." As the bandages wrapped around his back and chest came undone, Spot winced. The air hitting the oozing cuts stung, adding to the pain. "No infection, but dey's pretty deep. Some of 'em will scar for sure, an' da rest might." Doc pulled clean bandages from somewhere.

"Hic looked all over for dose." Scape commented. "Said he almost couldn't find 'em." Doc wrapped them around him tightly, apologizing for the pain. "I think he had to ask dat boy what sometimes gits us food ta git 'em."

"Didn't dat kid git caught?"

"He escaped. Beat us to it. He ain't bringin' as much now, but he was willin' ta help a boy who got whipped. He got whipped enough times himself."

"How'd he escape?"

"Rode out on da back of Roosevelt's carriage."

"Impressive."

"Yep. We'se gonna git out, but mebbe not as flashy as dat."

"No kiddin'." Riding out on the back of a carriage was impressive, and coupled with the fact that it was a famous person's carriage, it was a very flashy way of escaping. "What was dat boy's name?"

"Jack. Jack Kelly, I think." Scape looked to Doc, who nodded absently in confirmation while double checking the bandages.

"Dat should hold least till dey ain't bleedin' no more."

"Thanks Doc."

"Wouldn't wanna risk gettin' soaked by you, kid." Doc said it in a teasing voice, but something in his eyes told Spot he was at least partly serious. He nodded at Scape as he left the room. Scape sat next to Spot.

"We'se think da reason da Spidah beat ya so bad fer startin' a fight was 'cause of da escape. He wasn't happy 'bout dat." Spot laughed lightly.

"Two escapes in a year. He ain't gonna be happy 'bout us, neither."

"Nope. When do ya think we'se gonna do it?"

"We gotta wait least till I kin take da bandages off. I gotta be able ta move good if we'se gonna do what we thought."

"So mebbe a week?"

"Week or a little more."

"Kay. Kin ya walk? We could bring ya back ta da dorms."

"I'll stay da night. Might as well have one night wid a good blanket an' my own bed." Scape snorted.

"Spot, if ya wanted a chicken dinner all ya'd hafta do is tell dem boys. Dey's scared enough of ya now dat dey'd do anythin' for ya."

"Scape, da bunk across from mine has six boys right now. I ain't makin' dem keep sleepin' like dat when I'se got an empty one 'cept for me 'cause I sure as hell ain't sharin' wid dat Wheel kid no more."

"Who's in da bed across from ya? If ya want, I kin tell some of 'em dey kin move over."

"Swoop, Click, Check, Wall, Ping and one other. If you could tell Click, Check and Ping dat dey kin move, dat would be great. Dey's some of my spies, so dey shouldn't be nervous."

"Roadblock said he wanted ta talk to ya. Wanna wait till you'se out, or kin he come in?"

"He kin come in." Scape nodded and went to the door. Spot stayed where he was sitting, watching. He saw Scape crack the door and mutter something. As Roadblock entered, Scape slipped out.

"Hey, kid."

"Hey yourself."

"Dat was some good fightin'. Bettah den you'se done before."

"I was angry. I used it like ya taught me."

"Mm." Roadblock was silent for a minute. "So you'se plannin' on gettin' outa here?"

"Yeah. Me an' Scape is leavin' together."

"Whatch gonna do when you'se out? Be a street-fighter?"

"Nah. Don't wanna end up back in here once I'se out. I'll probly be a newsie. I'se heard lots of da boys talkin' 'bout dem."

"Don't seem like a bad job, really. Lots of freedom an' da like."

"Yeah. I'll probly head outa 'hattan, too."

"Where ya gonna go?"

"Da Bronx? Brooklyn mebbe. Jist away from here."

"Brooklyn's a tough borough. Lots of gangs and boys who'd sooner soak ya den look at ya. Good for fighters. I hear dem Brooklyn newsies is a handful. Don't take nothin' from from nobody."

"Sounds like my kinda place. I ain't takin' nothin' from nobody no more, neither."

"What 'bout Scape?"

"Dunno."

"Well don't git yaself killed, kid. You could be somethin' someday."

"I will be somethin' someday." Spot sat up straighter. "One day I is gonna be da king. Da king of Brooklyn." Roadblock laughed.

"Ya might wanna wait till you'se older for dat one. Ya might be able ta beat da leader now, but dat don't mean dey's gonna listen ta a new kid, 'specially one who's only ten."

"I kin wait. But it's gonna happen one day. I promised Minch dat one day every street-kid would know me, an' dey's gonna. Dey's gonna know dat I'se Spot Conlon, king of Brooklyn. Dey's gonna listen ta me." Roadblock tousled Spot's dark hair.

"High goals. I hope ya reach 'em. Good luck, Spot." He stood and left the room, leaving Spot alone with the other boys in various states of pain and injury. A few of them glanced at him quickly before looking down. He smiled. A new part of his life was upon him, a part where he was respected and feared. And he was ready to welcome it.

 **Holy cow, it's been a long time. I've written up to chapter 24 now, so it shouldn't be this long for a while. However, school starts Tuesday, so it probably won't be as regular as I'd like.**


	18. Chapter 18

Spot and Scape slipped quietly from the dorms in the shadows, avoiding the boards they had carefully remembered squeaked. At any sound, they froze, as still as possible, hoping that a bull wouldn't hear and discover them. They crept together down the stairs, peering around corners. Once, as they moved through the lobby, they heard the heavy footsteps of a bull coming down the stairs. They ducked around a corner and pressed themselves against the wall, holding their breath. The bull didn't notice them as he continued to the stairs that led to the girls' dorms. Spot breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. He slipped across the dim room, Scape behind him, and eased the door open as silently as possible. He slowly closed it behind Scape, and the pair stood still for a minute, hearts pounding, looking at the moonlight that spilled across the barren yard. It was crisscrossed from the tall fence that was meant to keep the boys in. In the day, bulls patrolled the yard at all times, meaning that there was no chance of a boy making it over the fence and escaping. Even if they managed to make it over, a bull would be waiting for them on the other side. But at night they could escape. The two boys kept to the shadows as much as possible as they made their way to the fence.

"Is ya back good, Spot?" Scape whispered. Although his voice was quiet, it seemed to ring out across the still night. Spot nodded. He stood facing the building as Scape began his climb. He was to alert Scape if any bulls saw them. When he heard the light thump of Scape's feet hitting the ground, he began his climb. He felt the newly healed whiplashes stretch and the scabs that remained crack, but the pain was nothing compared to the excitement of finally being free. He dropped to the ground beside Scape and looked at his surroundings. The Refuge's yard was backed up into the woods of a park, but the fence stretched around the whole building, meaning by following it you could easily find the road. The boys walked in silence until they were a few blocks away. Spot jumped when Scape let out a whoop.

"We did it, Spot! We made it outta da Refuge!" Spot grinned.

"'Course we did. I was plannin', wasn't I?" Scape let out a joyful laugh. He looked happier that Spot and ever seen him.

"Ain't you a cocky little man!" He looked up at the sky. "I kin see da stars! All of 'em! Spot, I ain't been able ta see da whole sky since I was ten!" He spun in a circle. Spot shook his head.

"What are ya, six?"

"Aw, come on, Spot! We'se free! We ain't under da Spidah no more!" He laughed again.

"If ya wanna stay free, we oughta git outta 'hattan." Scape sobered at that.

"Right. We don't want da bulls ta recognize us here."

"Yeah. Roadblock said Brooklyn might be good. Good place fer a fighter."

"An' you sure is a fighter. But I ain't. I don't know if I'd make it in Brooklyn. I can't fight good enough ta avoid da gangs."

"I could protect ya." But Spot said it halfheartedly. He knew Scape was too proud to accept such an offer.

"Nah...I'se gonna head ta da Bronx. Find work in a factory, probly."

"Why not be a newsie? Dat's what I'm doin'."

"I'se too old. Plus factory work seems easier." Spot nodded sadly.

"Den I guess dis is goodbye." Scape looked down.

"Guess so." Spot looked in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge, then up at the sky, noticing the sun was beginning to rise.

"Thanks, Scape. You was one of da first friends I had."

"You was my second. I ain't nevah gonna forget ya."

"Hey, when my name is well known, come find me. I ain't gonna forget you, neither."

"You got Goat's knife?"

"Yep."

"Don't lose it."

"I won't." Scape suddenly scooped Spot in for a quick hug.

"Bye, kid."

"Bye, Scape." Spot thought he heard a sniff and maybe saw a glint of tears in his friend's eye. He himself was having more trouble than usual keeping his emotions at bay. The two hugged quickly once more, then turned away and began walking towards their separate destinations. When Spot reached the bridged, he looked back. He imagined he saw Scape looking back too, looking back and watching his friend disappear.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Roadblock woke up to a flurry of excitement. He listened to the whispers shooting around his dorm. He could only catch snatches of sentences.

"...jist gone!"

"No sign of 'em..."

"Da bulls lookin' all over 'hattan..."

"Da Spidah himself out!"

"Three escapes in a year!" He smiled.

"Ya did it kid. Ya really did it." He said to himself. That kid was going to do something big someday. He could feel it in his bones. And he had had something to do with it. He had contributed to Spot Conlon's abilities. One day, that kid was going to outshine Roadblock himself, one day he was going to be somebody. And Roadblock was proud that he'd had something to do with it.


	19. Chapter 19

The sun was high in the sky, the heat was sweltering. Spot was sweating on the crate he was sitting on. Flies were buzzing around his face and he absentmindedly swatted at them. He almost dozed off, but jolted awake as his head dropped down and his chin hit his chest. The heat was making him drowsy. He shook his head and pulled the key out of his shirt, sliding it back and forth on its thin chain, producing a rasping noise that echoed off the walls of the alley. He sighed. As of yet, Brooklyn was disappointing. He had been watching the newsies, learning about them. Their leader, Frankie, was fair, but not very good at discipline. He would often yell at boys who broke his rules, but Spot had yet to see him actually punish somebody. His second in command, Peter, was a bully, taunting the boys any chance he got. The newsies listened to their leader well, and respected him, but Peter was different. They listened to their second in command, but didn't seem to respect him. All orders were followed, but not without grumbling or eye rolls. They could all fight well enough, but weren't as impressive as Roadblock or Spot. The street gangs were just as plentiful as Roadblock had said, and were just as willing to pick a fight as he had been told. Almost all the beggars worked for a gang, and the gangs controlled the streets. Spot reached into the small pouch he had scavenged and pulled out his coins. He was slowly saving up to buy papers. He counted out four pennies for food and was left with thirty-two cents in pennies and nickels he had begged. He grinned to himself. Now he had enough. Tomorrow he would begin selling. He slipped off his crate and strolled to a bakery, where he paid his four pennies for a couple of rolls. As he chewed the bread and walked, he noted the newsies as he passed them. Each boy had a corner, and for the most part only sold on his corner. He ticked off the names in his head as he passed. Squidge, Flair, Flintlock, Nat. Bum, Brick, Lungs. Twitch, Sarge. All of them yelling headlines, trying their hardest to sell their papers before the day was over. He had been watching them for a while, seeing what they said to convince people to buy, how they flirted with the younger ladies, made the older ladies feel sorry for them. How they told the men bits of political news to entice them. He watched how they pretended to fumble with counting change, so that the buyers got impatient and told them to keep it. He watched them walk to the distribution yard every morning, and to the lodging house every night. They had a schedule and a system, and Spot was ready to insert himself into it. He was ready to begin his campaign to be the king of Brooklyn.


	20. Chapter 20

Spot strolled casually into the distribution yard as if he'd been doing it every day like the rest of the boys. He got some confused looks, but nobody tried to stop him. He put thirty cents down on the desk.

"Sixty papes." The man behind the desk shouted something back to the boys passing out the papers and a bundle of sixty was passed forward to Spot. The looks from the newsies gradually turned into mutters when they saw he was buying, not just a beggar wandering into the yard. Spot picked up one of the newspaper bags on the end of the desk, slipping his papers in and slinging the bag over his shoulder. As he began to leave the yard, a boy stepped forward. It was Frankie. He was a big boy, broad shouldered and strong looking.

"What do ya think you'se doin' kid? Dis is my territory."

"I'm sellin' papes." Spot met the leader's eye.

"Not in Brooklyn you ain't."

"Yeah. I is." Spot turns and kept walking. The mutters were getting louder as the boys saw Spot defy their leader. They may not always like to listen to Frankie, but they never outright disobeyed him.

"No, you ain't. Go sell in 'hattan. Or I'll soak ya." Spot smirked.

"You kin try." Frankie took that challenge. He swung his fist at Spot. It was a strong punch, but not one that was unblockable. Spot waited until the last moment and dodged. Frankie had expected to connect and the loss of contact made him lose his balance. Spot swung his fist and hit him in the stomach, then swept his leg under Frankie and made him fall over. He looked down at him. "I'se is sellin' in Brooklyn, Frankie. Don't try ta stop me." The leader stood up, glaring at the small boy. But the glare melted into something different, almost respect.

"Want us ta soak him, Frankie?" A voice called out.

"Nah. He kin sell." Frankie grinned. "Da street gangs will take care of him for us." The newsies chuckled. Spot ignored them and continued his walk out of the distribution yard. He heard several different sentiments as he moved past the newsies.

"Stronger than he looks."

"Not bad."

"Small."

"He jist got lucky." He grinned when he reached the street. As soon as he was out of sight, he heard the newsies roar into conversation. He could hear them asking Frankie what happened and if they should tell a gang to take care of him. They were confused and put off guard by the small boy who had taken down their leader. Usually things made sense in the newsies' world. The big kids could fight and were the leaders. The small kids did what they said and were protected in return. Spot had not followed those rules. He was a fighter, he didn't listen. He was small but mighty. And the newsies did not like that one boy could shake their beliefs of how their world ought to work to the core in one morning. Some of them were almost scared of him, because he had managed to stand up to Frankie and had been fine. They were nervous, wary of the new boy that promised to change the way the Brooklyn newsies operated.


	21. Chapter 21

Spot smirked at the newsies as he left the distribution yard. He had been selling for three weeks and still they didn't know quite what to make of him. They mostly just ignored him, though once in awhile one would say something to him. He was accepted as a newsie, even if they didn't really want him to be. Today, as he walked towards the docks where he sold, he heard footsteps behind him. They were trying to be quiet, but belonged to somebody big. He knew who it was, he had been expecting it for a while.

"Frankie."

"How didja know dat, kid?"

"I know lots of things."

"Oh." Frankie sped up until he was walking next to Spot. "So who are ya, kid? You'se been sellin' for a while but we don't know nothin' 'bout ya."

"Why do ya need ta know?"

"I like ta know about my boys." Spot stopped walking.

"Let me make somethin' very clear. I ain't one of your boys. I ain't under your rule. I don't gotta listen ta what ya say. I ain't livin' at da lodgin' house, so I ain't one of your newsies."

"So you'se a scab."

"No. A scab works for da paper. I work for myself."

"We got room at da lodgin' house."

"I ain't livin' at da house. I ain't bein' under nobody's rules 'cept my own. When I'm da leader, I'll live at da lodgin' house. Till then, I got a place ta live."

"When you'se da leader." It wasn't a question. Spot figured most newsies had realized that he had ambitions.

"Yes. Now 'scuse me. I gotta sell my papes."

"Where ya livin'?"

"Is dat ya business?"

"I-"

"No. I gotta sell my papes."

"Why is ya so unfriendly? We don't even know ya name!"

"Do ya need ta? It ain't like da rest of you'se is friendly." Frankie laughed in an over-friendly way, slapping Spot on the back. Spot gasped and stiffened when he hit the still sensitive scars.

"What's da matter?" Spot glared at him. "What?"

"It ain't ya business."

"I hit jist ya back. Why should dat hurt ya?"

"It wasn't you what hurt me."

"What, a ghost pinched ya?"

"No. A Spidah whipped me." Spot turned and stalked off.

"What is dat supposed ta-oh." Frankie stayed next to Spot. "Da Refuge?"

"Yeah. Now I gotta sell my papes. Leave me alone." This time when Spot sped up, Frankie stayed behind. Spot stopped in an alley and tried to look at the scars. They were raised, all over his back, and still a light pink color. They were fine most of the time, but when he hit them-or somebody else did-they hurt. He shook off the pain and continued to his selling spot. The dock were fraught with violence, headquarters to one of the more dangerous street gangs. So far, nobody had messed with him, except drunks once in a while, but he was ready if they did. He almost wanted somebody to mess with him, so he had an excuse to fight. He leafed through a paper, finding a headline that could make selling easier.

"Read all 'bout it! American ship sunk by Spanish! Fatalities! Read all 'bout it!" Several sailors strolled over to buy a paper. One even paid a nickel instead of a penny. He continued selling papers to the sailors and drunks that worked around the docks. At noon he bought a small lunch and sat at the end of a dock. He only had about fifteen papes left to sell. When he was done, he sighed and leaned back, looking at the blue sky. It was rarely such a clear day, with the sky a bright blue and the sun shining. Days like this were both a blessing and a curse to a newsie. More people were out, making it easier to sell, but the sun burned their exposed faces and arms, leaving them red and chafed for days at a time. By the time they were so tan they didn't burn anymore, it was winter and the sun wasn't strong enough to warm them up, let alone burn them. Spot had overheard many winter horror stories in the yard, about how lips turned blue, and sometimes boys got frostbitten so bad they lost fingers or toes. He shook himself out of his distracted thoughts and dragged himself to his feet.

"Fifteen more papes, den some rest till da evenin' edition." He muttered to himself. His life was lonely, with nobody to talk to at all. But he would push through it, he would last until he was old enough to be the leader. He was Spot Conlon, and nothing would stop him from being king one day.

 **Well that was a massive chapter dump. At least now I won't feel guilty every time I see how much I have written compared to how much I have posted.**


	22. Chapter 22

It had been happening for a little more than a week now. He would hear a voice call out behind him, clearly at him and clearly always the same boy, as he walked out of the distribution center.

"Hey, kid!"

"Hey...guy?"

"Person!"

"Shortie?"

"I dunno ya name! How is I supposed ta call ya!"

"Ay! Kid what punched Frankie an' sells by da docks!"

"Come on! Kid!" It was mildly irritating, but he ignored whoever it was. He never looked back to identify them. Until he heard the name that was the last straw. It went from annoying to making him angry.

"Hey! Wimp!" He whipped around and came face to face with the newsie called Flair.

"Who you callin' a wimp, Flair?" He spat.

"Ya know my name?"

"I know lots a things. Who you callin' a wimp?"

"I didn't mean it. I just needed to git your attention."

"Ya didn't need to do nothin'. Mess wid me again an' I'll soak ya."

"I ain't tryin' to mess wid ya! I just wanted to talk to ya!"

"Why?"

"Cause I'se curious."

"Why should I talk to ya?"

"Kin ya at least tell me ya name?"

"Spot. Spot Conlon."

"Spot? That's kinda a funny name."

"An' Flair ain't?"

"Oh." Flair walked beside him. "So ya tol' Frankie you're gonna be leader one day?"

"I is. Just gotta wait till I'm old enough."

"Dey ain't gonna trust you 'less ya get to know 'em more, you know."

"I don't need 'em to trust me. Just to listen."

"We don't trust Petey, but we listen to him. We do it with eye rolls an' complaints. We trust Frankie an' we listen to him good. Trust kin make a big difference." Flair sounded completely serious. "If ya just talk to 'em some, git ta know 'em, dey's gonna learn ta trust ya. An' dat's gonna make a difference when ya become leader."

"Mebbe."

"Spot, if ya wanna be a good leader ya gotta know what's best for da boys, an' ta know dat ya gotta know 'em. Give it a shot, huh? Ya nevah know...some of 'em might be ya allies. I would be."

"An' why's dat?"

"Cause I kin tell dat you'se gonna be a good leader. You'se a good fighter, an' ya seem smart. Peter ain't. Ya ain't scared ta soak somebody if dey is stupid, and Frankie ain't ever even pinched nobody, even if dey steal. Ya might be da leader dat gits Brooklyn all da respect it deserves. Dey might be scared of us in other boroughs, but dey don't respect us. Dey don't care what we'se got ta say, dey jist avoid us. I think you'se kin change dat." That was a show of faith Spot hadn't expected. Clearly, this boy was observant and willing to do anything for his borough. "Jist talk to 'em 'stead of glarin' when ya pass 'em."

"Mebbe."

"Jist try. If I'se right, den it'll help. If not, den what harm was done?"

Spot took Flair's advice and started to try and get to know to newsies of Brooklyn. At first they were reluctant to talk him, and Peter did his best to stop them from talking to Spot. He felt threatened. The first time they actually opened up at all was when the Flair laughed at a muttered comment directed at Peter.

"Da boy wid da brains, he says. He's barely got enough brains ta put his shoes on da right feet." When Flair's bark of laughter reached the other newsies, they turned towards him curiously.

"He sometimes don't even got dat much, Spot!" Flair said.

"What'd he say, Flair?" Flair checked that Peter was safely out of earshot and grinned.

"He noticed dat Peter ain't got enough brains ta git his feet in da right shoes!" Several boys let out nervous chuckles, knowing that Peter would not be happy if he heard them. But they did laugh amongst themselves, and begin to accept Spot as one of them, once it was clear that he was just as disdainful of Peter as they were. Nobody was clear on how exactly Peter managed to become and remain the second in command, as he was an idiot, but somehow he did. Privately, Spot thought he either bribed or blackmailed Frankie for the position. He would never say that to anybody, because there were many possible ways it could be taken that would earn Frankie a bad reputation that he did not fully deserve. Frankie wasn't the toughest guy, when it came to punishments, but he was a good, fair leader. He kept the street gangs from taking over completely, and did his best to help his boys. Spot didn't want him unfairly accused of something because Spot had said something that had been taken the wrong way. Spot was hoping, in all honesty, that Frankie would be gone before he took over, he didn't want to fight him. The boys all respected Frankie, he didn't want to shatter that faith in him. But Peter was another matter altogether. Spot would be gladly fight him. He was constantly needling not only Spot himself, but also many of the other newsies. Spot thought that a leader should not make fun of his boys in any way other than jokingly, and Peter was clearly not joking. He brought up the past, always a sensitive topic, or weaknesses, and usually used his insults to get something in return, always something petty, like the a place closer the front of the line for papes. He was a cruel, manipulative idiot, and the world would be better off without him in a position of power, even if that power was second in command of a gang of street kids. Most of the newsies agreed with this assessment, and once it was clear Spot felt that way, they would often talk more freely around him, making jabs at Peter after he left the yard and telling Spot stories of mistakes Peter had made and stupid things he had done. The opened up more and more to the boy, and did begin to trust him. Flair had been right.

They told him about how Frankie might be leaving within a few years, since he was seventeen, and how Peter would take over. They told him that they hoped he would be a better leader than Peter, and he said he would be. He would sometimes go the the deli they ate at for lunch, Whitey's, and he would lean back in his chair, the picture of ease, looking to all the world like he was just eating lunch with a group of dirty newsboys, but he was really watching. Watching to see what each boy acted like, how he showed respect and how he hid disdain, he figured out some of their tells and knew when they were lying. He was always alert, even when he was doing something like letting them teach him how to play poker or how to attract the sympathies of a lady who might give him a nickel instead of a penny and not expect change. Not that he could use that much at the docks, but it could be useful at some point. They didn't really realize just how much he knew about them until he would say something, call a bluff or ask why a boy was eating something he didn't like, or what had happened to the girl he had been talking about for the last week. Then they began to know that he really did know lots of things, not only the important things.

The newsies of Brooklyn began to genuinely like and respect the small kid who had decided he belonged in Brooklyn, who had a perpetual black eye and a crooked nose from too many fights, but who cared. Who took the time to listen and talk, something most people didn't. They started coming to him with problems, when they hadn't eaten in a week or somebody stole their money or even if they just were tired of the stuff they put up with. They learned he was trustworthy, and Peter resented Spot more and more for that. Even Frankie would talk to him sometimes, once even asking for advice. Spot had laughed it off, telling the older boy that he was the leader for now, that he should do what he knew was best for his boys. Spot knew the newsies of Brooklyn well, and he fit in. He belonged in Brooklyn now. He wasn't the scared little boy of before the fire, wasn't the kid who put up with with everything from the Refuge, he was a tough, small, young kid who didn't put up with anything and was scared of nothing. He didn't just live in Brooklyn, he had become the embodiment of all that defined Brooklyn: smart, tough, poor, a fighter. And he wasn't giving up.

It was funny, really, that Spot was the tough one. He was small, shorter than any other boy his age, and didn't look all that scary, or even sound threatening. He was ten years old. He was young. He looked relaxed, as carefree as an orphan living on the streets could be. But watching the kid, Flair could see what set him apart. He never dropped his guard for an instant, always alert and watching, even when he was tilted back in a chair at Whitey's, laughing and eating lunch. He saw absolutely everything, and remembered it all. Flair could watch him pick up a bit of information, and then hear him use it weeks later. Something small, like who was who's best friend, something bigger like why somebody never managed to sell enough papes for a good lunch. Spot picked up on everything, and while he didn't exactly keep it a secret, he didn't advertise it either. If he noticed a boy needed a few extra pennies, he would wait until he thought nobody was looking and slip them into their bag. If somebody needed to talk, they knew where to find him. Flair watched Spot slowly grow into the position he was going to have one day as the boys begin to trust and like him. He himself became closer and closer to Spot. Out of all the newsies, Flair knew Spot the best. He watched as Spot grew into his personality, as he grew closer and closer to being the leader. And he watched Spot struggle through living in an alley, pushing through the cold winter and another hot summer. When Flair talked with the other newsies, they all agreed on one thing: this kid was born for Brooklyn. He was tough, smart, strong. He wasn't afraid of anything, and yet wasn't stupid about rushing into things. He was calculating. The newsies all knew he would be a good leader. All they had to do was wait.

 **Wow. It has been so long that not** ** _one_** **of the other chapters still has a doc saved. And it's not like this wasn't written, either, I just never got around to posting. I don't even know. Sorry. I'll try to be a bit better, but for the next couple of weeks I'll be scarce. Midterms are starting, my sis is home, rehearsals for How to Succeed just started, it's all a bit overwhelming. So I'll be better, but maybe not much for a little while.**

 **Thanks so much for such nice reviews! To the guest who seems to have binge read, thanks for the feedback! And all of the people who review every chapter, or most, or even just one or two, thanks also! Feedback is so nice, whether it's constructive criticism** **or just plain being nice!**


	23. Chapter 23

In the end, Spot was almost twelve, as near as he could figure, when his chance came. It started, he supposed, around his twelfth birthday, the day Flair found him before the bell even rang and told him Frankie had left in the night, leaving Peter in charge. Spot didn't plan on challenging the boy for at least a little while more, until he was sure the older newsies wouldn't object to him being leader, but only a few weeks after Peter took over, Flair found him before lunch and told him to not go to Whitey's, because Pyro had taken over and Pyro wouldn't like Spot eating with them unless he agreed to become under his command. Spot spent the rest of the day watching from a distance, selling what papers he could. He knew Pyro, it was hard to live at the docks and not, and he knew that Pyro was one of the cruelest, most manipulative boys on the streets. He was a thug in the dock gang, but Spot suspected he had more influence than the other boys in the gang. Maybe he wasn't exactly smart, but he was good a poking people where it hurt the worst, prodding at the things they were most ashamed of to make them do something he wanted them to do or using what they were proud of to get on their good side. It was clear, however, that he really didn't care how much the newsies liked him as long as they listened, and he used intimidation to ensure their obeying. Spot didn't like what he was seeing, random beatings and thievery. Peter and his group seemed to have disappeared, and nobody was standing up for the younger boys receiving the majority of the cruelty. Pyro seemed to enjoy causing boys smaller than him pain, and striking fear into the newsies. Spot got angrier and angrier watching, seeing how the older boys did their best to help the younger up, to take care of their bruises and teach them how to avoid Pyro's unwanted attention, but the thug enjoyed picking on them and hurting them. He watched for weeks, keeping mental notes, and surviving on begged coins and bread pulled from dumpsters. Until he snapped.

He had found a rooftop that gave him a good view of the circulation desk, and spent most morning watching the newsies from up there. Every once in awhile, one would look up and see him, and he could read the silent plea for help in the eyes of the young ones even from the distance he was from them. The older ones didn't see him as often. One day, he was watching and he saw the start of something he couldn't ignore, and even the beginning was enough to send him running off the roof and towards the yard. He saw Pyro start on Nib, the smallest of the newsies, and Flair try to stop it. Pyro turned towards Flair, who looked at Spot quickly before standing up straight. Pyro stepped forward, and Spot knew even without being able to hear that Flair was being threatened. When Pyro took his first swing, Spot was already at the fire ladder, and he got to the yard as Pyro got Flair on the ground, the smaller boy curling into a ball. The newsies noticed Spot at the gate and parted, a few whispers rippling through the crowd.

"Hey! Pick on someone your own size, why doncha?" Pyro turned at the voice coming from the gate and laughed at the small boy standing as if he owned the city.

"And who is you, kiddo? A friend of that punk?"

"I am. An' I'm through lettin' you hurt him an' all my other boys." Spot sauntered through the path the newsies had made for him.

"An' _you_ is gonna do something 'bout it?" Pyro pouted at him mockingly. "Oh, the widdle boy is standin' up for the big kids!" Spot stared at him coolly, a look the newsies knew pretty well. Spot had avoided the dock gang, knowing that not getting to know them at all would improve his chances of staying in his shelter there. Pyro had not met him, and did not know who he was, or how well he could fight.

"That's right." He said it as a statement, almost no inflection. He'd learned fast that no reaction often made people more nervous than anger.

"Whatcha gonna do 'bout it? Glare at me?"

"I'm gonna give ya one minute to step down, an' then I'm gonna fight you." Pyro laughed.

"Like a squirt like you could fight me!" Spot stopped right in front of Pyro.

"I ain't lettin' you beat up these boys for fun no more. You got thirty seconds to yield."

"I ain't yieldin' to a boy I could beat in my sleep." Spot heard the newsies shuffling behind him, whispering amongst themselves. He counted in his head to thirty. Pyro was still laughing a bit when he stepped forward and connected his fist to the older boy's side. Pyro bent over, wheezing from the perfectly placed punch, allowing Spot to get him in the face with his knee. Pyro roared and straightened up, beginning to fight back. Spot let himself drift into the fighting zone, losing all thought outside of when to duck and dodge, where to strike. Fighting Pyro was different from any other fight he'd been in. It was hard. It was one of the first fights since the Refuge that he'd had to try, that he was nervous about what the outcome would be. Pyro knew how to fight and his size was an advantage. For a while, they went back and forth between Spot having an advantage and Pyro, but as the fight went on, Spot noticed Pyro tiring, moving slower. The gang boy hadn't had many fights where his opponent fought back, and wasn't used to having to keep fighting for long periods of time. Pyro moved slower and slower, blocking fewer and fewer of Spot's punches. Spot hit him, and one at a time they didn't phase him, but as Spot spun and hit his sides over and over, he noticed Pyro gasping more raggedly. Spot saw a weakness in Pyro's already limited defense and swung his foot up hard connecting with Pyro's stomach as his fist stayed steady underneath Pyro's nose, so that as the older boy hunched over to catch his breath, he connected with the fist. Spot swept his leg underneath Pyro, grunting at the impact. Spot was strong, but Pyro was massive, and he took a lot of effort to topple. But fall he did, and Spot stepped on him to keep him down. Pyro made a halfhearted attempt to sit up, but gave up when Spot raised his foot as if to threaten a stomp on the face.

"I yield." He muttered, so that only Spot and the newsies gathered close could hear.

"What was that, Pyro? Say it nice an' loud, so all of them can hear you." Spot spat.

"I yield." Pyro said louder.

"You ever gonna mess with my boys again?"

"No."

"You gonna mess with me again?"

"No." Spot smirked at the boy, his eyes cold and hard.

"You mess with me or my boys again, I'll kick ya halfway to Queens, you hear?"

"Yeah."

"Get outta here. Get outta Brooklyn. I'm the king now, an' my word is law. I see you on my territory again, an' I'll do worse than soak you, got it?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Spot stepped off of the larger boy. "Nat, Lightning, make sure he leaves Brooklyn." The two boys stepped forward as Pyro got to his feet. "An' if they come back an' tell me you ain't leaving, I'll get you out myself." Pyro nodded and walked out of the yard, glaring at the ground. Nat and Lightning followed behind, glancing at Spot to make sure that was what he wanted them to do. At his nod, they left as well, and the other newsies watched them go. They were quiet. Spot kept his face blank, watching them for their reaction. He was younger than most of them, and there was always a chance they weren't ready to accept him as leader yet. But he saw them smile slightly, and look at each other from the corner of their eyes. Flair stepped forward and broke the silence, his smile larger and more sincere than the others'.

"Spot Conlon, king of Brooklyn. Long live the king!" The other newsies glanced at their new leader before repeating the phrase.

"Long live the king!" Spot allowed something closer to a smile than a smirk to slip through his mask, and he watched the newsies of Brooklyn, _his_ newsies, celebrate the fact that they had a chance of living under a decent ruler.

 **And FIN. Unless you have prompts for what you want to see, this seems like a good place to end it. Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers, followers and favoriters, and to Musicalphan, who has been working hard to make sure I didn't give up.**


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